Horizontal
by Rosywonder
Summary: Ever wondered what happened to Illya at the end of the 'Alexander the Greater' affair? Your questions answered.


HORIZONTAL

An Epilogue to the 'Alexander the Greater Affair'.

Sleep is a wonderful thing. Normally, I have no difficulty at all sleeping anywhere, at any time, on anything for as long as I am allowed. I suppose that my profession has helped to hone my sleeping on the spot skills to perfection, but I can't really remember not being able to fall asleep literally at the drop of a hat, right from my earliest years. Napoleon grimaces every time I describe our sleeping arrangements at home during the war, but then he was safe and no doubt very snug in a place far from danger throughout his childhood. As I said, I can bed down just about anywhere, on anything, but I think if I were pushed, I'd say a good pillow would be the luxury I'd request to ensure the absolute certainty of waking refreshed and ready for the next thing UNCLE cares to throw at me .

After handing over my champagne to Waverly at the end of a very trying day in the service of that organisation, I was immediately overcome with a longing to close my eyes and do just that. My appearance, which until that moment I hadn't really thought about, was beginning to create a mild frisson of disdain amongst those rather more well turned out members of the embassy party, a few diplomatic noses beginning to wrinkle and a few faces beginning to frown at my less than elegant attire and the state of my hair, which, when I finally glanced in the rather ornate mirror behind me, resembled the cornfield that I had rolled about in and been nearly cut to a thousand pieces, before I decided to take a bath in the slurry pond so kindly provided by Alexander's health food farm.

Despite having fought with a man twice his size, jumped from a moving car to a moving plane and then parachuted back to earth all in one day, my esteemed partner looked as if he'd just spent the evening getting ready for the occasion, much to my chagrin. He took a long, slow look at me and then pulled that expression which said 'hair, clothes - disaster', leaning back simultaneously to rescue another drink from a passing waiter. Waverly had turned away meanwhile, and was now engaged in a serious discussion with some South-East Asian diplomat and his wife, a tiny woman resembling a ceramic figure come to life, who spent the whole time avoiding eye contact in the way that people from that part of the world usually do.

'Napoleon, um, I'm not really dressed for the occasion' I finally mumbled, submitting to the overwhelming unstated opinion of the rest of the guests.

'Well, I've seen you looking better' he replied, joining in the nose wrinkling for my benefit. I knew without asking that we would be booked on a late flight out of D.C. and expected to sleep it off in the plane. No doubt whoever made those arrangements didn't take my adventures down on the farm and my participation in Mr Karvon's mummification experiments into account.

'I'm not spending the night sitting next to someone who looks and smells like the farm scene from 'Little House on the Prairie' Napoleon hissed at me, whilst taking in any female interest in the vicinity. Obviously my aroma was cramping his style with the ladies somewhat, judging from the distance he was not so subtly putting between us.

'That is fine for you' I hissed back, 'but I don't actually possess a change of clothing or have free access to a bathroom.' Neither of us had noticed Tracey Alexander sidling up, though normally one would certainly not miss her in a crowd. She seemed to have taken a shine to me much to my partner's annoyance, and appeared impervious to my appearance or smell. Coming between us, she grasped my arm and whispered,

'I have a solution.' Napoleon tells me I am counter-intuitive as far as women are concerned, and I have to admit that I had no idea our body language was so obvious. Either that, or she had abnormally good hearing. Anyway, guiding me away from my grateful partner, she thrust a small card in my grubby hand. 'It's next door' she added, 'President Sing has a special arrangement there.'

I had no idea what she was talking about but creeping exhaustion was blunting any kind of rational thinking I usually relied on. Ignoring Napoleon's throw away comment about time I backed away from the more elegant guests in the room and made rapidly for the exit.

'The Satsuma' as the sign over the doors mysteriously stated, turned out to be a kind of up to date Japanese bathhouse or _Sentō _as my new escort told me, holding back the blue curtain ('for men, Kuryakin-San') and ushering me through into a world where megalomaniacs, mad scientists and even over-affectionate women and lothario partners seemed a distant memory. Tracey had consigned me to this man whose appearance and expression defined the word 'inscrutable' on the steps of the embassy, a little flip of her hand and the usual lipstick pink smile making it clear that no further explanation was forthcoming or necessary. A growing feeling of somnambulance combining with a sudden desire to remove my clothes caused me to follow my new friend without further comment.

I was soon to be granted at least one of my wishes. Having at least a cursory understanding of other cultures ranks highly in the skill set of an average spy, and I consider myself above average at least in that respect. Besides, relieving myself of my shoes was an absolute pleasure. My Japanese friend, after speaking rapidly to a similarly enigmatic man behind the front desk, appeared once more beside me clutching a small wooden bucket filled with some items for which I gave thanks to an unseen God.

'Take off clothes and put here' he commanded, pointing to a large basket neatly placed with others on a rack behind me. Then, apparently being able to read my mind he added 'we clean.' I didn't have the strength to argue, and besides if they could 'clean' then that was fine by me.

I've never been embarrassed by nudity, either my own or anybody else's, but the sound of female laughter through the wall did awaken what little modesty I had left. Despite the fact that there was a substantial barrier between us, I picked up one of the towels my friend had given me and, following tradition, held it over my genitals, but not before the eagle eyes of my now similarly attired friend had spotted something.

'You got tattoo?' he semi-hissed, alerting the attention of the other men in the room to what might be lurking beneath my towel. I frowned. Hot water, soap and even the possibility of closing my eyes for a few moments was so painfully near. 'In traditional _sentō _it not allowed' he said, pausing slightly as I glanced downwards. It was true, the forbidden body art, a rather tasteful hammer and sickle surrounded by a star had been etched onto my _mons pubis_ on the last night of my naval service aboard '_The Moskva'_ after excessive vodka had rendered me unconscious to the world and uncaring of what was happening whilst I was sleeping it off. Luckily a good crop of hair now covered most of it, but not all.

'But, he continued, without the faintest hint of a smile, 'we allow now . . here.' I breathed again. As if on cue the other men advanced on the door at the end of the room, sliding it back and filing through into what was approaching paradise for a weary Russian with a hygiene problem.

I was now into unknown territory. Reading about other cultures and performing cultural activities correctly could be two very different things. I shook my very filthy head a little to engage what brain cells I had available. Clutching the wooden bucket I headed for the nearest set of taps and sat down on the conveniently provided stool in front of them, wrenching my eyes out of my head in an effort to watch what came effortlessly to the others around me. As with all things Japanese, there is an art to doing things, and time must be taken to do them correctly. Soap, shampoo, hot water from one tap, cold water from the other tap, a rinse from the shower head, and then, only then, to approach the bath. My skin, already covered in a liquid I didn't want to think about and then semi-mummified and already turning a blotchy pink in protest, immediately turned a vicious, hissing red as I entered the bath. I attempted to swallow a scream as the man nearest to me, with an uncharacteristic grin enthused 'it hot, eh? Vely good for skin!'

I nodded, but was unable to either agree or disagree; in fact I was unable to speak coherently at all for the first few minutes. Eventually though, after returning to the shower and then back to the bath several times I began to appreciate its power of healing; my towel like theirs, gliding upwards as I entered the water and residing on my head until I chose to get out, then sliding down again in an effortless show of oriental modesty.

Exhaustion for the time being was held back until my friend and guide pointed me towards a door at the back of the room, cutting into a magnificent tiled picture depicting Mount Fuji, this particular view showing it as a kind of raw red, with only streaks of snow lacing its craterous top. I knew how it felt.

'Steam room through there' he said, interrupting my thoughts. 'This, new addition for westerners. You rest now, Kuryakin-San.' At the word 'rest' I could feel my legs give a little. I forced back my knees into a kind of locking position and walked forward with as much determination as I could muster.

The room was tiny in comparison to the bathing room, a rather claustrophobic little area of steam and yellowy brown tiles with a broad shelf running round the edge for those steam lovers to sit upon.

'Women have finished' my guide pronounced. 'Now you can have steam and rest.' Clutching my wooden bucket like a long lost friend I entered, my bare feet making soft sucking noises on the floor as I approached my ceramic bed.

Why it was there I cannot imagine, except I presume that it was left by one of the women, but not a Japanese woman surely. A pillow like that was nothing like the cylindrical Japanese head supports made of buckwheat hulls I had slept on without difficulty, and which I imagined Napoleon had complained about endlessly as I slept. I half stumbled towards it and picked it up, its white softness in staggering contrast to the rigidity of its surroundings. It felt slightly damp, but my head was at least if not more so, and my head was now insisting that I should lie down now. I squeezed it gently and then placed it back in its corner. For some reason I don't fully understand I lay down still holding onto the wooden bucket and, unsurprisingly fell almost instantly deeply asleep.

I don't dream a lot; or rather I don't often remember dreams, and the ones I do remember I tend to keep to myself. The traumas of the day however, were still on my mind and insisted on blundering into my dreams as well. Mr Karvon and his bandaging techniques were repeated endlessly, followed equally endlessly by Napoleon's more brutal un-bandaging techniques. I could hear his voice, the usual ascerbic comments on my appearance as the endless winding and re-winding sequence played through my dreams. Eventually he seemed to be prodding me, calling my name from somewhere, and I was wishing that he would just …

'Illya. Wake up. Illya!' I moved my shoulders slightly to check the bandages were off but a persistent shake of my shoulder followed by a hard slap on my naked backside combined to bring me back brutally into the steamy real world. Napoleon's face loomed into view through the steam.

'You need to get dressed now, but you can bring your little comfort toys with you if you want to.' Somehow I had contrived to remain holding onto the bucket in my dreams and had wrapped the pillow round my head with my other hand. Pushing the bucket away I sat up. Sometimes it's tempting, when someone goes just a little too far, not to ram what one has in one's hand right down someone else's throat.


End file.
